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4818 msmn means 4818 meters above sea level - in Spanish of course!
Read the full chronicles of this trip
Movie Clip (Quicktime): 16,000 Feet on a Friday ascent
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The Galfromdownunder, in an out-of-body moment, signed up for the inaugural PACTOUR Assault on the highest paved road Peru trip. The first two days were 'a Baptism of fire' as tour leader and ultracycling champ Lon Haldeman put it, but after that I was doing 75 miles in jungle heat with relative ease. I consider this tour an excellent combination of great scenery, fascinating Peruvian culture, weird things to eat including guinea pig (cuy) and other small furry animals, excellent cameraderie and support, and challenging but do-able riding that will stretch you to the next level. And what an opportunity to ride with a legendary cycling authority and world champion, Lon Haldeman. Of course, it's even better if you do it on a Friday, like the Galfromdownunder's Bike Friday.
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TUESDAY OCTOBER 27, 2004: TODAY WAS THE DAY OF RECKONING: I would be one of a handful of questionably sane people who had paid money to launch an 'assault' on the highest paved road in the world at 16,000 feet: The Ticlio Pass, smack in the middle of the Peruvian Andes. A famous railroad operates in fits and starts over this pass, but few attempt this ascent on bicycles, and I'd be one of the first to do it on a Bike Friday.
Our leader: Lon Haldeman (46) , twice RAAM champ, tandem coast-to-coast record holder, 5 times PBP veteran (including this year on a single speed road bike, riding in daylight only 'just for fun'), in short, Marathon Man meets Terminator on two skinny wheels. This time, however, he was on two smaller skinny wheels - his Air Friday - because it packs in a suitcase and 'rides as good as his best bike', of course. His subjects in descending order of seniority: Charlie Feaux (69) from Alabama, Jerry Segal (66) from Indiana(Air Friday), Glen Martin (49) from Virginia, and the Galfromdownunder (42), fresh as a wilted daisy from my Handsomest Man in Cuba book tour, on my Pocket Crusoe.
We'd landed in Lima a couple of days earlier, taking in the once-derelict grandeur of the historic city from the comfort of an air conditioned tourist van, followed by a day of pedaling to 10,000 feet. The scenery changed from barren mountains of dirt and dust to limestone chasms flanking the narrow highway - a corridor through the Peruvian Andes.
I was not feeling too breathless at at this altitude, even though my shampoo bottle was starting to look pregnant.
Fabulous balconies poking out from every characterful building in Lima.
Our ascent in earnest began at a misty, mud-side hotel called Chez Victor, in San Mateo, about 100 miles out of Lima, at the aforementioned 10,000 feet.
All's well that begins well. Lon, superlatively organized, solemnly brought out the cylinder of oxygen and instructed the four of us as to its use, which we listened to as one does the safety drill on an airplane - not at all, until the moment of truth. Our laminated route map indicated we'd take 5 hours to do the 23.5 mile, 6,000 foot climb to the summit, whoop it up with photos and congratulatory handshakes, then drop dramatically over the other side for a thrilling 25-mile, 2 hour descent back down to 12,000 feet. Bonza!* *Aussie for 'beaut'!
I tooled around somewhat at the start, stopping to take photos of school kids clustering around our digital cameras, and buying delicious roadside tamales with raisins (3 for 1 Peruvian Sol, or 33 cents). Pretty soon my century/brevet-trained teammates left me behind.
My style of travel has always been self-supported slow and steady ambling, 0-40 miles per day over two or three months or more, stopping to smell the enchiladas. This kind of tour really required a more disciplined kind of riding as background - the stamina and mentality to get-a-move-on; to sniff a teensy bit more of the burning kevlar.
And ideally, you would acclimatize yourself to the altitude by spending a few active days and nights at 10,000+ feet, said Lon. Now, if you live in the Colorado Rockies that's easy to set up. But if you are like me, slumming it at sea level in Eugene, it's a little tricky. Apparently there are genetic factors too - some people can handle high altitude, others cannot - it has little to do with fitness, said Lon. I figured I would hit the oxygen tank if need be, especially since the itinerary said we'd only be spending an hour or less at the top. I felt very smug, as one tends to do when joining a group tour with all the bells and whistles. Or should I say, Powerbars and Endurolyte capsules.
At 12,000 feet I noticed a dull pressure nudge ever so imperceptibly above my temples as we headed skyward, the grade never surpassing around 6%, despite the ominous signs showing a silhouette of a truck on a sharp slope. At some point the sign was promisingly tilted to further emphasize the challenge ahead.
As Lon Haldeman is a legend in the world of ultramarathon cycling, I thought it would behoove me to pay close attention to his actions. He seemed to eat at every rendezvous with the support vehicle, at least once per hour. Endurolite capsules, Powergels, Pepsi, pretzels, apples, nuts, chocolate cookies, Pringles - whatever was going. He was eating a lot more than I was - no wonder my legs seemed to be losing pedal power fast.
I know how we women operate. Or at least many of us. We've been trained by the confounded media to be thin if we want to be looked over rather than overlooked, and the spectre of this rears its ugly head at the most nonsensical and inappropriate times. I've seen us cut half of a half of a slice of a brownie, shave a epithelial sliver off the block of cheese, leave the crust of the pizza on the plate and buy low-fat everything - and eat thrice the laughable 'serving size' of the latter anyway. I know this because it was time to get on the bikes before I realized I'd simply stood around sipping water and watching Lon nibble.
Despite reluctantly refueling on Gatorade, if for nothing else, than the buzz that water+sugar+color gives you, I felt the overwhelming urge to close my eyelids and lay my head on the handlebars.
'Fatigue is just glycogen deficiency in muscles. You need to get some of this into you,' he said, tossing me a Powergel and a bottle of Pepsi at the next stop. 'The gel for energy, the caffeine for your head.'
As we pedaled on I concentrated on breathing deeply, short of hyperventilating, trying to synchronize my breaths with my pedal strokes, as I had done for several years of loaded touring. This was not loaded touring, but it sure felt like it. I cursed the makers of Powerbar for packaging thier bars in suck a clingy, hard-to-open wrapper, reasoning that they should inner wrap it with rice paper so it slides out of the wrapper - then realized I was wasting valuable energy processing pointless thoughts like these.
Meanwhile, Lon stayed close behind me, chatting brightly as if he was doing no more work than sitting in his favorite armchair sipping a Sprite.
'In RAAM, the moment you lose motivation, the depression sets in, then it's really hard to finish,' he said, making me wonder why he was bringing up such rousing topics as I panted my way along the blacktop. He was referring to the folks who aim for a 8-9 day finish as opposed to the ones doing it in 10-11 days. His wife Susan Notorangelo is an ultramarathon champion in her own right, being the first woman to win RAAM and cycle across the United States in under 10 days. Lon says she's heard so many people - including women - talk about doing all kinds of ultra-things RAAM but not following through, that it takes a lot to impress her. This rung in my ears as I heard myself comparing my skull to the size and weight of a lead balloon - self inflicted as it was.
At some point around 13,500 feet, keeping my eyelids open without twigs and my legs moving without death threats became increasingly difficult. My bike started wavering around on the narrow or non-existent shoulder, and Lon would periodically shout out now and then, waking me in time to avoid plunging into the spectacular limestone ravine to my right, or oncoming double-decker buses and trucks honking to my left.
The traffic did not help. Trucks coming up the rear belched fumes so foul I dared not breathe in case the CO2 content turned me into a thriving plant. And everyone tooted - what is it with motorists who insist on blasting on their horns right when they pass a cyclist? If they're doing it as a safety warning, by then it's too late, and it's more likely to scare the cyclist into falling over sideways. Which is what I almost did a couple of times.
Waves of nausea came next, and I breathed hard and intentionally to try and trick my body into thinking it was all a disturbing but eminently worthy dream.
Boy, was this legend patient, seen here with my little bike while I threw up over there on the side ... just kidding ... well ...
At around 14,000 feet I limped up to the support van and 'volunteered' to test out the oxygen tank. I felt a little sheepish as I sunk back into the cushioned seat of the van - my normally extremely comfortable Terry Men's Ti Fly saddle had somehow turned into one of the rocks jutting out from the sheer cliff faces shading the road.
'Just breathe normally, don't hyperventilate,' said Lon, clamping the mask onto my face.
I felt like a bit of a flake but did my best to pretend I was doing it all in the name of science, or at least recreational research for the Bike Friday community. I climbed out of the van feeling a little better, but I am not sure if it was simply being able to get out of the saddle and take a breather.
At 14,500 feet I was slumped over the handlebars and amazed my feet were still moving in circles. Again I crawled up to the van which had stopped a few feet ahead of me. I got back in the van and promptly went to sleep, waking every few seconds thinking the Pepsi had fallen out of my hand and messed up the carpet. I actually woke after what turned out to be a mere ten-minute doze, dreaming about Lon and I sitting at a dinner table with Cat Stevens. I did notice Lon had taken the Pepsi from my hand, thus saving the carpet. Lon tossed me a couple of aspirin and another bottle of Pepsi. 'To thin the blood, improve circulation, and wake up,' he said.
Pedal, zzzzz, pedal, zzzz ...
An interesting thing to note, was that when I stopped to rest, the fatigue completely disappeared. However, the moment I swung my leg over the bike, it returned like a ton of bricks on a pendulum. I joked with Lon and the guys, saying I am normally lazy, and that having them push me up the hill from behind and pull me from the front really called me on my bad habits. Lon glared at me balefully through his Chips sunglasses.
'You're not lazy. Just not fast.'
Gleep.
I squinted and saw the van perched on one of the several switchbacks high above me, gritted my teeth and with dogged determination pedaled what seemed an eternal 2.5 km until I thought I reached it - but it had driven off. Now it was make or break.
'Just 2.5 kilometers to go,' said Lon, as the cold damp mist enshrouded us and the mountain.
This was the longest 2.5 km I believe I have ever traversed, second only to the 20 km that seemed utterly wrongly markered when I rode to Celestun in the Yucatan at Christmas.
'Just look for the Colgate sign,' said Lon breezing past.
I never saw the Colgate sign. I did see the van in the mist. And there were the guys, waiting at the top, freezing and about to make the descent without me. We all hugged and hollered and took photos. If I had not tooled around at the start, I might have made it to the top in no better shape but at least with less fog and a view of the spectacular 16,000 feet below us. But a fogged-in sign with 4,818 msmn (metres sobre nivel del mar = meters above sea level) would have to suffice.
The descent was as tenuous as the ascent, a full two hours of careening jungle-ward where the scenery changed from fog and new snow to lakes and fields, broken by roadworks and bone-jarring gravel sections, until finally I reached La Oroya and a hot shower. At dinner I did not even have the energy to lift my fork.
And this was just the start of the tour...
Tailpiece: Lon says he drank 4 Pepsis and took 4 aspirins. This is the 5th time he has done this route. He admits that he felt similar to me the first time, in fact, said at one point he could not do simple math. I knew he'd admit it sooner or later.
UPDATE: We've just ridden 75 miles following a muddy brown river to Satipo, deep in the Peruvian jungle. The local police tell us we are the FIRST GRINGOS to reach Satipo on bicycles. I guess that makes Lon and me (the first honorary gringa to do it on a Friday). More soon ....
Charlie turned 69 in Satipo (where no cyclists had ever been before until we came along, said a local policeman). Don't you wish you'll be half as fit as he when you're 69? 49? 39?
Read about this tour and register your interest for the next departure - call Lon on (262)736-2453 (BIKE), www.pactour.com
Read about the Galfromdownunder's Bike Friday
Words and pictures Copyright 2005 Lynette Chiang, www.galfromdownunder.com
For more information, follow this link http://www.bikefriday.com/bf/galfromdownunder-peru2004.